Ses vrais amis
by erimies
Summary: In the end, Sly could not regret his life. If that night had never happened, would he ever have met Bentley and Murray? Life was an adventure, and he had a destiny. A novelisation of the first game, concentrating on the parts the games never showed.
1. Prologue: My family

Sly Cooper was very young indeed when his father first sat him on his knee and told him of his heritage.

(That conversation stuck with him ever clearly for the rest of his life and was much treasured, for an owl's claws ripped that life to pieces soon after. He didn't have many memories left of that early age, could only recall a blur of vague happiness.)

A shiver of excitement had ran down his spine then, for what little boy did not like to hear he was special, born for greatness? He was to be the next link in an unbroken lineage that had persisted for _millennia_, an heir to a clan of extraordinary thieves.

It was a measure of worth and ability, his father had said, to aim for those who thought themselves above and untouchable by law, who assumed they could abuse others without consequences.

The Coopers had _honour_.

And there was no challenge nor fun in stealing from ordinary people.

That night, he had first shouldered the weight of his family history and the expectations of his ancestors. Yet, it felt not like a burden. His father had puffed his pipe and smiled proudly.

(Later, much later in his life, Sly would come to learn that his father had left more than just Clockwerk out of his tales. Later yet, he would find that this was for a good reason, for not everyone was blessed with companions as good and trustworthy as Bentley and Murray.)

There might have been a tiny sliver of sadness, uninvited and fleeting, for his dreams of being a police officer, a trapeze artist or a spy were now forever beyond his reach. His fate had been set before he was even born, a contract signed by his blood.

And yet, those thoughts had been weeded out with very little pain, having not had time to grow deep roots in his heart. If he ever remembered his regret later in life, he thought it silly, for was he not an exceptional climber, were his fingers not agile and fast, was he not able to squeeze through impossibly small openings, to walk unseen by being and beast?

Sly liked the glimmer of gold and jewels too much, appreciated the beauty of priceless stolen artefacts too deeply, loved the thrill of stealing far more than honest labour and sweat. Thousands of years of thieving were in his blood and would not be denied.

It was his fair fortune that the family business suited him well.

(Later, many years later, after he had accomplished what his ancestors had strived for countless centuries, he would realise what his father had done: why he had been told of his heritage that young, so young he did not yet doubt the word and will of his parents. There was no bitterness in the thought.)

Not long after and as soon as Sly could read, his father put a precious family heirloom in his hands: an ancient leather-bound book with heavy gilded letters adorning the cover.

Thievius Raccoonus was in no way a book to be ignored. The tome had a certain heavy presence to it, as if it literally carried the weight of his clan's history. Sly felt it tingle against his fingers and imagined that it was the spirits of his ancestors, reaching to greet him across time and space.

Some of the pages he merely glanced at, as it was still much too soon for him to learn the more advanced moves. Certain other pages his father declined to show him (and those were probably about Clockwerk, those _must _have been about Clockwerk, was a stray thought that hit him on their way back to Paris from Krack-Karov Volcano).

For some time yet, life was good.

.

* * *

.

It was not to last.

Later, he would think it a cruel coincidence that it all happened on the very night he was to fully inherit the book. Huddling in that tiny closet, he could only wait, powerless, as his world crashed around him. There were five intruders, all different sizes and shapes. He could not see much in the low light, but it was easy to tell the attackers had the upper hand.

Sly retreated to the far end of the closet, not wanting to see, but he could not help hearing even when he pressed his palms against his ears. He eventually lost track of the screams and the crashes, just desperately waiting for it all to end.

Then, there was silence.

It took Sly several seconds to realise it was over. For a fleeting moment hope blossomed bright inside him. Then, several decidedly foreign voices and heavy steps echoed through the room. Familiar dread filled him again, now mixed with despair. The outcome of the fight was obvious enough.

Loud bangs and crashes echoed through the room now; the intruders seemed to be looking for something. Sly forced himself to move back to the door and look. His eyes widened in an entirely new horror.

_No_.

There lay forced open the most secure, sturdy vault of his home, which held only one item, as precious as it was irreplaceable. One brute wrenched the book's covers open and tore the pages off with no particular regard, separating the it into five pieces. It was almost like physical pain to watch and keep silent.

They had already taken his parents. Now, they stole his legacy.

There was nothing to do but watch, hoping against all hope they wouldn't find him too. He was helplessly, desperately aware he was at the mercy of fate... and luck.

.

* * *

.

Apparently fate _had_ decided to cut Sly some slack, or he'd somehow gained Lady Luck's capricious favour.

He kept still inside his closet long after the intruders had left, mind blank and reeling with shock. What had happened was too sudden, too violent and extreme. It might have taken minutes or hours to put his thoughts into some sort of order.

Eventually, he did. His every limb seemed to tremble and it was a laborious affair to even rise to his feet and leave the closet. The world lurched and spun in circles around him as he made his way to the discarded remains of Thievius Raccoonus.

He didn't know how long he stared at the empty covers that were left of his family heirloom, stranded on the floor, violated and ruined.

In the end, he picked them up and went looking for his father. By then, his trembling at least had abated and the world deigned to keep still. He felt hardly better for it.

His home had been a maze of carpeted corridors and lovely, big rooms, filled with beautiful furniture and many priceless artefacts. Most everything was now broken or stolen; glass, porcelain and wood cracked and splintered beneath his feet. The noise was deafening in a house that was otherwise silent as a tomb.

He found his father on the floor of the living room, his form still and broken. The man had always held an impression of contained speed, alike a coiled spring, ever ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. None of that energy was left now. His stillness had something very final about it.

Sly curled up against his chest and sobbed bitterly. The warmth of his father's blood was already waning.

.

* * *

.

Sly could never quite remember much of the following days. He had been taken to a police station for questioning (and wasn't it a peculiar thing to be in the police car unrestrained; he wasn't supposed to be the _victim_).

The room was messy and in need of repair; the file cabinets on the far end were all but falling apart. There was a single fluorescent lamp hanging from the ceiling, its light bright and pallid. Every now and then it flickered with an ominous zap.

Sly was curled up on a plastic chair, next to a desk covered by papers and office equipment. There was a thick woollen blanket on his shoulders and someone had handed him a mug of hot chocolate, which had been abandoned to cool untouched. Adults were talking nearby, their voices blurred together into meaningless background noise.

Sly gripped tighter at the cane, the only thing that seemed to ground him to reality. Heartbeat erratic and unbearably loud in his ears, Sly stared at his feet, yet did not see them but the ghastly image of his father, laying still on the floor, crimson blood slowly soaking in the carpet.

(Expensive one, his father had stolen it for his mother, it was of _excellent _Arabian craft, his mother had _loved_ it, now ruined and bloody like his fa-)

Sly blinked back furious, scorching tears that threatened to fall, trying not to sniffle and pulled closer to the cane clutched in his arms. He had that heirloom left, at least. He would yet have his revenge, too.

They had made one mistake, Sly was still alive. It would cost them.

Sly clung to that thought. He would not be a helpless eight year old child forever. He was a Cooper and he would one day take back what was his.

(Gripped as he was by his grief, Sly could never have anticipated he was about to meet the two most important people in his life.)

.

* * *

.

Author's notes: Oops, my finger slipped. I seem to do this thing where I write stories with premises that are at least a little derided. Self insert, time travel and now (more or less) canon novelisation.

That said, this will be at least somewhat AU. There are many things that simply don't work well in a written story, mostly things that have to do with game mechanics. There's also the fact that I don't want to bore people with rehashing things exactly as they are. More of a case of 'took a different route to the same goal' than going somewhere else entirely, however.

I do wonder what people will think of this. I'm not necessarily expecting a lot of attention, though, considering how small the fandom is.


	2. Operation: Cookie Connection

**Operation: Cookie Connection**

* * *

Should anyone have cared to ask for the opinion of the orphaned and the unfortunate, the Happy Camper Orphanage did not live up to its name.

Nowadays, the once grand manor was ragged and rickety and falling apart, sulking precariously on the top of a hill. Moss crept up the walls in a slow green conquest and miserable, hardy weeds covered the yard. The interior was similarly falling apart, slowly deteriorating when no one bothered to repair what broke.

And yet, it was people who made the place unhappy; the headmistress in particular. Mrs. Puff was an unpleasant sort of bird on a good day and detested all children with a particular petty vehemence. It was an ill turn of events indeed that had once placed her in charge of the place.

.

* * *

.

On that Tuesday, the sky hid behind a thick mat of clouds with an occasional ray of sunlight that rinsed the world in gold and fire. Even that could not paint the orphanage in a flattering light. Sly looked through the police car window and disliked the place in an instant.

Unbidden and unwanted, he remembered his own beautiful house in the countryside, his last sight of it with broken windows and unhinged door in the harsh blue of the police signal lights. He would never go near that broken home again, he knew, but in his mind he could not seem to stop again and again tracing his bitter steps to find what became of his parents, could still smell blood and hear the _crunch_ of porcelain and glass under his feet.

The motor was turned off and the sudden lack of noise startled him out of the dark place his mind wanted to dwell in. The silence was heavy and tense and Sly climbed out of the car, quick feet, lest it fester to something unpleasant.

The officer who had escorted him was a stern-looking German shepherd with stony features and a flawless posture. He was not unfriendly, per se, but he _was_ curtly and stoic and always watched Sly from the corner of his eye.

The police had taken decent care of him and it was good, but he did not forget for a moment that they had done so out of duty - they had no love for Coopers. Neck prickling, he almost ran the meandering path to the front door.

(Sly always could tell when someone was watching him, a family instinct so intrinsic that he didn't remember a time he had _not_ felt it.)

It was a relief to hear the car start again when he reached the door.

He wiped his feet on the doormat, steadying his breath and trying to force his uncooperative hand to take the handle and enter. This was the last moment he could cling to his lost family, last moment before he had to build a new life and fill it with new people.

The moment passed and he pushed the door open. It protested with a tired groan, but yielded eventually. Behind was a long, tall hallway with many closed doors and a long dusty carpet. There was a faint smell of vomit and faulty lavatories in the air.

But there was also noise there, and signs of life.

The flat remains of a pierced football were stranded in a corner; an inside out pair of shorts had been thrown over one fluorescent lamp; muddy footprints ran across the carpet and building blocks littered the floor.

Some of the heaviness of his heart eased. Maybe he could make some friends. He had never had those before.

.

* * *

.

Bentley often thought it was rather unfair how much of a bully magnet he was. Small of stature, asthmatic, near-sighted and unusually intelligent, nearly everything about him seemed to scream "punch me!" to the local aggressors.

Most other children were afraid of getting in the line of fire themselves and because of that he spent most of his time reading alone in some hidden corner.

At least Murray sometimes kept him company. Birds of a feather do flock together, outcasts especially so. Always shy and somewhat insecure, Murray was of no help if their persecutors were to appear and was usually their victim _nombre deux_, tormented for being large and less than bright, a cruel and ironic contrast to Bentley's plight.

Today was no exception. As always, he hadn't done anything to gather attention but they had spotted him anyway. He and Murray were now surrounded in an inconvenient corner in the second floor, nowhere near authority.

His heartbeat sped up and cold sweat gathered under his shell. Already he could feel his breath getting more reluctant and he _hated_ his asthma, hated that his lungs betrayed him when he needed them most.

The leader of the pack was a rhino with no brains to speak of, but malevolence he had in excess and a stocky build as well. He also had two lackeys, who were clearly just that even at this age, two wily, wiry lizards with sharp tongues and sly eyes.

The tall green one laughed. It came out as an unpleasant, clucking hiss. "Where are you going? It's not like you're expected anywhere, only fatso likes you. Even your ma and pa didn't want you!"

The brown and stocky lizard hissed, his spit splattering on Bentley's face. "No one _else_ was left here as an egg! You musta already been real ugly if they didn't even wait till you hatch."

An old insult and it still stung fiercely. Bentley was glad his glasses were like the bottoms of Coca-Cola bottles, impossible to see through. He closed his eyes and braced himself, hoping they wouldn't break the pair this time.

_Breathe, just breathe -_

.

* * *

.

Sly had been trying to find his room when he ran across the commotion that was three children ganging up on two others. At that sight, some of the anger he had suppressed, fury that had festered for days, rose and burned like bile.

_Cowards! _an inner voice hissed, resentful for the unknown children, resentful for his parents. _Ganging up on others...!_

He had yet to grow into his cane, had never fought anyone before, didn't know any of these people. None of that mattered. On some long-buried instinct, Sly leaped, the motion smooth and fluid.

His body was young and awkward still, but in that moment a shadow of his future grace could be seen.

.

* * *

.

There were screams and thuds, but the expected hit never struck home. Bentley opened his eyes cautiously, only to see that a fight had already broken out and ended. A new child was standing in front of him, holding a cane larger than he was.

When the bullies had disappeared around the corner he turned to face Bentley, ringed tail trailing behind. Even though he had to be about the same age as Bentley and Murray, Bentley already saw the frame of an athlete, the potential for strength.

"Are you okay? What's your name? I'm Sly. Sly _Cooper_!" he said, obvious pride in his voice. His grin was the kind that radiated confidence, managed to reassure that everything was under control.

The air was far easier to breathe now.

Bentley smiled back hesitantly and adjusted his glasses.

"My, ah, my name is Bentley. Thank you for defending us," he said and offered his hand to Sly, who took it with the enthusiasm of someone who had never experienced a handshake before.

While Bentley tried to discreetly rub his circulation back, Sly turned to the third member of their little group, the question written on his face.

There was a pause.

"I'm Murray," was the eventual offering, almost too quiet to hear. As the silence stretched on and grew awkward, Sly began slowly bouncing on his heels.

By chance, Bentley coughed. While it was nothing more than a reflex to clear his poor, long-suffering lungs of dust, it didn't matter. Attention was on him and he fumbled, searching for a topic of discussion.

What he came up with was: "You... seem very proud of your family. Would you tell us about them?"

Cold dread ran under his shell when his brain caught up to his words. Bentley's genius was by no means all-compassing, but did reach in several directions, and he had seen the unmistakable signs of recent stress on Sly's face. Family had to be the worst topic he could have brought up, when this place was an _orphanage_.

And yet, before he could apologise, Sly perked up and grinned, even as there was pain and conflict also in his eyes. The awkward silence dissipated. "Sure! But let's go somewhere else first. I won't tell family secrets to just _anyone_, you know!"

.

* * *

.

They commandeered the orphanage's sheltered, shady attic for a temporary hideout. Around scattered were old cardboard boxes, worn out armchairs and looming high wardrobes, all coated by a thick layer of dust. Several oil paintings had been piled up in a precarious heap that seemed one sneeze away from crumbling down.

The pale, short-lived light of the early evening shone through a window high up the wall. It robbed the room of its colours; leaving long, dark shadows and wan blue behind. It was an entirely appropriate place for Sly's tale of corrupt pharaohs, bloodthirsty pirates and cunning ninja.

Bentley and Murray listened to Sly with very satisfying wide-eyed, rapt attention, gasping at appropriate moments. It was the novelty of storytelling and their keen interest that let Sly enjoy himself, bade him to let aside his grief for the moment.

Even when time came to talk about _that day_. He spoke of the violence, of his dread, of being helpless and alone. Something poisonous bled out with the words.

"- and one day I'll be old enough and strong enough and I will go and take it back from them! I'll become a master thief and restore my lineage!" he finished, new confidence in his face and posture.

He was emotionally drained, his voice raspy and his throat dry, but his ambition felt more real now that he had spoken it aloud, a _goal_ instead of a vague pipe dream. The wide amazed eyes of Bentley and Murray were enough to silence the small voice of doubt that had nagged in the back of his head, insisted he might fail.

_This_ silence was not awkward. Unspoken in the air was the fact that Bentley and Murray were now also part of the tale, by the virtue of having asked and listened.

.

* * *

.

Bentley had often wondered about his future, looming ahead, vague and intimidating. While he had a theoretical choice of profession after his mandatory school years, the fact was that social status and money still made the world go around.

Surely he would not end up with a nine-to-five job selling shoes with the brains he had been blessed with, but what other options were there? Some second rate engineering school and a job designing toasters and washing machines?

Bentley wanted something else, and Sly...

Well, Sly seemed to embody all the romance and adventure that could be found on the other side of the law.

They would certainly not be just any common thieves either (and he _already_ counted himself and Murray in, didn't he). They wouldn't be the bad guys; they would be like _heroes_, working outside the law, taking down people the police couldn't touch.

Bentley found he liked the thought.

Still, in the end it was Murray who spoke the words that set their future.

"Can we come too?"

.

* * *

.

Five weeks after that Sly was in Mrs. Puffin's office yet again, for whatever transgression he had supposedly committed this time. He hadn't paid attention, it might as well have been 'breathing aloud' for all he knew. Certainly 'eating messily' and 'noisy laughter' hadn't ever seemed valid reasons so much as excuses for deliberate cruelty.

He was not paying attention because he was staring at the chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Puffin was eating. From her smug smile, he knew she was doing it on purpose. The sheer pettiness was on a level of its own.

Unknown to her, however, he wasn't miserable or seething in anger. He was calculating.

She might not have been a crime lord, but she was not a _good_ person.

A valid target.

Once he finally had his sentence (scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, good thing he could borrow Bentley's), he made his escape and joined his friends in their hideout-fort.

"Bentley, I need you to make us a plan. She's eaten those cookies for the last time."

.

* * *

.

Their orphanage worked on a certain schedule. Every night the janitor, known commonly as Scary John, would come in to empty the rubbish bins five minutes after Mrs. Puffin left her office. A narrow window of opportunity, and the only one.

In future, they would have all the gadgets, skill and confidence they would ever need. That day, Sly was yet too small to use his cane and their only method of transportation was the small toy cart they had nicked earlier that week.

The plan and the cart still seemed larger than life. This was _it_. Their first heist.

The orphanage was different at night. The background cacophony of childish voices was gone, leaving behind the depressing duet of leaky faucets and the creaks and groans of an old house. The shadows made everything threatening and alien.

Sly was in his element. He was no more audible than a mouse, moved through the shadows as if one of them. He stopped behind Mrs. Puffin's door and waited.

It did not take long. She left the room, humming a tune, off to brew her evening cup of tea. Before the door closed behind her, Sly had already slid in, a shadow in his own right.

_There_, the target, on top of the shelf. Difficult, but doable. His eyes saw the path. _Chair, desk, shelf..._

He would have to hide now and wait, but timing was critical and every second counted. Sly crossed the room and opened the latch of the window. Outside, he could just see a flash of red in the bushes where Bentley and Murray waited.

Satisfied, he jumped in the paper bin and covered himself.

It was another odd thing he had noticed about himself - although he took up nearly all room inside and could not possibly cover every inch of himself in rubbish, he was near invisible to anyone as long as he did not move.

Probably a family thing, then.

_Keep still, breathe..._

He waited, far more patient than an eight year old child had any right to be. Waited for her to finish her tea, not peeking, never fidgeting, until she finally rose and turned off the light. The tick of the lock was loud and clear.

Sly waited for the _click-click-click_ of her high heels to fade and stood up. The moon had risen at this point and shone in the room. He pulled the window up and open and caught the plastic cup that flew in from below. He grinned. Their timing was already impeccable.

"This is Sly. Do you read me?"

"Bentley here. What's your status?"

"I'm in position! Warn me of Scary John if you see lights."

"Roger that! Commence Operation: Cookie Connection. We are ready with the getaway cart. You have approximately 3 minutes and 42 seconds before the janitor comes in."

Sly tied the wire of the cup to his wrist, ready to alert him. Now was the time. He had no experience, but he had talent and affinity. It would have to do. Practice had to come from _somewhere_ and he had no one to teach him but trial and error.

_Grab the chair, jump, land on desk, watch out for noise- _

The shelf was looming above, three times his height, but he could scale it.

The desk was too heavy to move. This left a two-meter long gap to the shelf. In future it would be nothing, he could jump far greater distances and probably add in a fancy somersault or two. At eight years old, it seemed like a canyon.

Sly leaped.

He almost didn't make it, caught on one ledge lower than he had aimed for, but his grip was sure and the shelf stood still, not minding the extra weight and a different centre of gravity.

(He didn't know the word, but he understood the concept. After all, his family made a living of such things.)

He pulled himself up, up and up. His arms were groaning from the exertion, unused to supporting his weight. Somewhere in the back of his mind an imagined clock was ticking and he knew he was running out of time. But it would be worse to overestimate himself and climb too fast and then find himself with no strength to escape. A heist was only as successful as the getaway.

_Almost there, almost -_

The shelf was sleek and waxed, offered no friction. He almost slipped and cursed and -

_- there. Finally. _Sly grinned and pulled the receiver in front of his face; a gesture that would eventually become second nature after Bentley put his degree to use and built them the best wireless communication devices on earth.

He did not have time to speak before Bentley screeched in his ear, shrill and nervous.

"Sly! We see the janitor! What's your status? We need to pull this operation!"

"I'm on it!" came through the muffled voice of Murray. "Hang on guys! We're driving out of here!"

Sly had not thought to untangle the line from his wrist. But he _had_ inherited his father's fast fingers and grabbed the jar fraction of a second before he also was pulled out through the window.

The ride through the yard was nothing short of chaotic. Somehow Sly managed to twist in the air and land in the cart. He grabbed hold of the edge and a shaking Bentley.

"Where are the breaks on this thing?" Murray wailed.

"Ahhh... that was my project for next week, I'm afraid..."

"Uh-oh. Try to aim for something soft, Murray!"

The cart hit a small stone and steered out of control, heading for a tree until -

_bouf_

They landed on a pile of lawn clippings.

For a disoriented minute, all they could do was spit blades of grass. Then, there was breathless laughter and finally reverent silence when Sly released his death grip on the cookie jar. He grinned, looking up at his friends.

"Dig in!"

For years to come, the taste of cookies would bring in memories of accomplishment, of youth and friendship and strength.

.

* * *

.

In general, the three friends did not spend too much time inside the orphanage, choosing instead to explore the countryside on Murray's little cart.

Sometimes it seemed as though they could keep running forever under an endless blue sky, pretending to be on the run from the police with priceless loot on board. (In reality, stolen apples and an enraged goat.) The wind was a gentle breeze and smelled of green things.

Inside the orphanage, lives were still rough for one and all. Mrs. Puffin was a continuous unpleasant presence and the loss of her cookie jar had not exactly endeared children to her. Often they ended up relying on Sly to sneak dinner from the kitchen after dark.

But it mattered not. Happiness was crayon-drawn plans under a blanket fort, a stolen and empty cookie jar hidden in the garden shed and an imagined future of daring heists and fast getaways.

Occasionally, Sly even forgot the heavy weight on his shoulders and his inevitable harsh quest for vengeance. Then he would chance to look at his cane and always remember torn pages and blood seeping in the carpet. At these times, he sometimes asked himself if it was fair of him to drag Bentley and Murray into his fate.

Shadows and police sirens were bad enough, blood was worse.

He had asked about it once, if they really wanted to risk their lives for his legacy. Bentley had been thrown off a loop, distracted from his plans, and hadn't been able to find his tongue.

Murray had spoken instead, had said "Friends are worth getting hurt for."

Bentley had agreed. That had been that.

But sometimes, Sly still wondered.

.

* * *

.

The cycle of school and summers was not to last.

Sometime along the line, Bentley had become such a regular at the village library that the librarians had started to joke about charging him rent. Naturally, they didn't know what exactly he did there, reading tomes larger than he was and clicking hours and hours away on the slow and dusty computer pushed out of the way in the corner.

He was, more often than not, hacking. As all knowledge, writing code came to him easily and willingly. It would be useful in future, so he would learn everything there was to know about it.

So he clicked away, in silence, amidst tall hallways of bookshelves, in the pleasant smell of bound leather and old paper. But always, when he almost felt as though he was the only person in a world of computer code and dusty air, Sly and Murray would come in and sneak him a croissant and a bottle of water.

Murray had been hired to run errands by the town mechanic, a walrus with a slow steady voice and biceps of steel but also deteriorating sight and a failing back. It had taken him two hours to realise Murray had been born a wrench in hand and, over the years, had taught Murray the tricks of the trade. Murray spent most of his time under a car these days, but had also been instructed how to drive.

"It is disgraceful," the mechanic had said, wiping his oily hands on a rug, "to know how to mend but not how to conduct. An apprentice of mine will know what to do with a steering wheel."

No one asked what Sly did whilst Bentley hacked and Murray changed tires. There was no need to, really, because more often than not he came in with pockets full of coins and cash.

(Even now, not a single coin was split between the three of them. Money was spent when needed, no questions asked.)

.

* * *

.

Murray first saw the van abandoned on the side of the road. A battered thing, grey paint cover nearly non-existent and bumper dented.

It was love at first sight.

Murray spent the next month patching it up, camping day and night right there on the side of the road.

(Sly and Bentley had looked at each other, baffled, then agreed wordlessly that a getaway van was a brilliant thing to have and they did not have the money to buy a new one anyway.)

It ended up their responsibility to bring supplies, as Murray refused to leave "his baby" alone. Both initially worried about what the old mechanic would say, but that had turned out to be "nothing" and they had been handed Murray's tools with a silent nod.

Eventually, they had it in working condition with Sly's "acquisitions" and Bentley's newly obtained knowledge over combustion engines and car batteries, fruits of a tireless weekend of research in the library.

Sly wiped his hands of grease and smiled at the content purr of the motor. Bentley gave a thumbs-up from the front seat, having monitored the gauges from the inside.

"How does it look underneath, Murray?" he shouted over the noise.

"We're all set!" Murray rolled out, looking ready to burst into tears. There had been no leaks or suspicious noises; the van was working perfectly.

"Well then, welcome to the gang!" Sly said warmly and pat the metal. With a new coat of blue paint and a lack of rust and dents, it really was a rather nice van.

.

* * *

.

Bentley was almost fifteen when he rounded up their current abilities and made a crucial decision.

Murray was a capable mechanic and driver. He had been that before Bentley even realised they would need a getaway driver, and that was well. (Sometimes he looked and saw how Murray could lift even the heaviest load without much effort and wondered if driving and mechanics were not his only talents, but that future was years and heaps of self-confidence away.)

Sly, now, he was ever athletic and fleet footed, very much naturally capable of stealth and acrobatics. He had not been given Bentley's analytical ability, but was intelligent in his own way, could think on his feet and make the split-second decisions that were essential when one's life was spent in shadows and under the moon.

Neither of his friends would benefit from school.

Murray had never been the academic type, had learned well enough at the garage. What Sly needed to achieve his true potential was the Thievius Raccoonus and they could not _hope_ to touch that for many years to come.

_That_, more than anything, had led Bentley into this decision. He was the brains of their gang and could not learn all he needed from a tiny library and a slow, hiccoughing computer. Writing code was already ingrained in his fingers, strategies he could not learn in school. Engineering was the best bet. For electronics and other things, for machines and gadgets.

Now, years spent with Sly had caused Bentley's moral compass to point to a subtly different North. It was therefore his firm opinion that if he could hack himself into the system of the _École Centrale Paris,_ he was already entirely qualified to attend.

There was no need to apply traditionally and wait for even _more_ years to pass.

.

* * *

.

The career councillor of the village school, a mouse with a coat of already greying brown fur, was stressed enough to almost break down and cry on his desk. Because their school was indeed small and housed the entire population of the village's children, there simply wasn't a way to afford much personnel. On top of advising students on where to go in their lives, he took care of all other counselling, tutoring and the occasional clogged toilet whenever their elderly janitor busted his hip cleaning the stairs.

His was a thankless job on most days, even discounting the extra responsibilities. Children never seemed to have the patience to think ahead and that grief did not even include _special_ cases like Sly Cooper whose apparent plans for the future could be accurately summed as "ehhh, something will come along" and a hand wave, and who usually walked out of his office with pockets full of office trinkets and the occasional wallet.

_At least Bentley seems to have a handle on things_, he thought approvingly. During their last talk, Bentley had presented him with a letter of acceptance and early enrolment to the prestigious _École centrale Paris_, one of the most selective _grandes écoles _in France.

Overjoyed as he was for his student, he had spent the entire meeting congratulating Bentley and completely forgot to ask about things such as his living arrangements, budget and, indeed, how he had managed to successfully apply in the first place without having sat through an entrance exams and two years of _classes préparatoires_.

_However_, he thought to himself, _surely such a brilliant and responsible child has already arranged everything. He really is a genius._

The councillor continued writing, calmer now and content that at least one of his students would have a brilliant career and would not end up drifting to the other side of the law to make ends meet.

.

* * *

.

They left their village on one of those summer nights when wind was mellow and mild and the sky an endless dome of tiny stars. The only sounds were the serenades of grasshoppers and croaking of frogs. The moon was yellow and impossibly large.

Gathering their property took a while, as most of it was hidden in tree holes and rooftops rather than their room in the orphanage. There was hardly any true privacy found there, and they had not trusted their fellow orphans not to have sticky fingers. Loyalty born of the collective hate everyone felt for their caretaker only stretched to keeping quiet over transgressions and feigning ignorance if questioned, never property theft.

Mrs. Puffin did not even know they had left, would only find out next morning from a hastily written note. She would sniff in contempt and throw the note in the rubbish bin. _Good riddance to those good-for-nothings_, she would think and leave to brew her morning tea.

Murray's goodbyes were far more difficult. The old mechanic had been his mentor for years, had listened and taught patiently and never asked many questions. They had expected anger, for robbing him of his successor.

Apparently he had again understood far more than they had thought. There was no anger on his face, merely a certain sort of resigned sadness. He nodded at their apprehensive faces, thanked Murray for his hard work and told him to take care of his van.

More telling even was the brand new set of tools sitting in the back of their van.

(There was more snow on his fur now, his back was more bent. They hoped he would have time to have another apprentice, one that would _stay_ and not wander away to the world.)

And yet, soon enough, the gloomy mood lifted. They were young and free, a long, bright future stretching ahead. The road was endless, the night pleasantly cool and there was a faint scent of the white flowers of bird cherry trees in the air. Their little village was far behind.

Somewhere ahead, distant and glimmering with promise, was fair Paris.

(They never returned, not even for a visit. What was there to go back for, except possibly a grave? No one wanted to see that.)


	3. The lean years of our youth

**The lean years of our youth**

* * *

Paris in daylight was overwhelming, especially to former residents of a tiny rural village. The city seemed to stretch endlessly beyond what eyes can see, tall buildings reaching for the treetops and an ocean of people on the streets.

Summer made the air hot and humid, and the leather seats of their van were getting uncomfortably tacky. Sly rolled down the window for some fresh air (even city fumes were better by this point) and winked at a group of pretty weasel girls walking down the street. They giggled and waved back. Sly grinned, projecting a very believable image of an arrogant and carefree playboy. He loved Paris already.

Bentley wasn't in any state of mind to admire the sights, he was clutching at his map, nervously tracing their progress and checking again and again that they had not gotten lost. Murray did peer around every time they stopped at traffic lights, eager to take in the surroundings while he didn't have to concentrate.

Daytime Paris was certainly worth the attention, picturesque and bohemian and very much like an image from a post card. There was something to see everywhere; charming little cafés, majestic historical monuments, fashionable boutiques, carefully groomed parks. The women were glamorous with stylish clothes and impeccable make-up, the men seemed jovial and fond of wine. Snippets of conversation and music carried over the noise of traffic. Behind the distasteful smell of exhaust fumes was the scent of coffee and delicious food.

Murray's stomach was starting to protest, and around three in the afternoon they stopped to eat at a dowdy little bistro. The food was good and the waiter surly, his plastic slippers flapping against ceramic floor tiles as he made his way around the room, avoiding customers and varnishing spotless tables.

Sly leaned against the wall next to their booth, playing idly with his cane and sipping at his coffee. Murray was still stuffing his face, having raided the dessert buffet. It was an impressive collection of delicacies: _crème brûlée_, ice cream, fresh berries, whipped cream, custard tarts, chocolate mousse and various other pastries. Bentley was again pouring over the city map he'd been consulting ever since they'd seen a pompous little sign that had announced their entrance to Paris proper.

(It had seemed a little arbitrary; Paris had definitely not begun from one spot. It had emerged, slowly, like a gleaming urban pearl, from quiet elegant suburbs and dreary bleak industrial areas.)

Eventually it was time to pay up and leave to continue the unique adventure that was finding a specific address in a new city. But Paris was vast, and evening arrived long before they reached their destination. Sly watched, fascinated, as the city changed with the sunset.

Paris of the night was a city of sin and vice, a coral reef of neon lights and colours of the rainbow where people went where they would, some passing the time searching for the business that was pleasure, some for the forgetfulness found at the bottom of a wine glass. The air was thick and heady with expectation, the music low and thumping.

Sly felt right at home. It was only the need to find their new temporary home that made him stay in the van and not leap out to explore. He wanted to visit the clubs and listen for useful gossip, scale the tempting rooftops to gaze at the hustle of the city from above.

But there would be time for that later, always.

.

* * *

.

Their new neighbourhood, _Château Rouge_, was not quite as glamorous as the name suggested. It was the dirty underbelly beneath the elegance, where the unwanted and forgotten gathered, those abandoned by the world of light. Happiness was hard fought in these parts, long lost in the shards of broken dreams.

While the street surface was made of charming cobblestone, the buildings on both sides loomed tall and derelict, covered in graffiti and windows either broken or boarded up. The streetlights flickered, manholes steamed faintly and garbage was piled up on the sides of the street.

Their apartment was more of the same, having one dusty room besides the toilet and the kitchen. What wasn't falling apart was stained and the furniture consisted of a single bed and a sofa. The fridge seemed to work well enough, but also made a strange rattling noise and was clearly a senior citizen that should have been allowed to retire long ago.

But the place was also high up, high enough that the rest of the Paris was visible through the wide window, spread in distance like a glittering canvas where cars sped along roads in neat lines of light. A yellow moon loomed into the room, impossibly large and lonely. It all offered some distance from the streets right below.

Living in this neighbourhood was less about money and more about avoiding attention during their early years. It was not yet time to gain the attention of police and, as long as they kept their heads down, they would seamlessly disappear amongst the poor and the downtrodden.

They had barely started to unpack and clean up the dust of the travel when there was a knock on the door. Sly opened it with healthy caution, only to relax when the pallid light of the hallway revealed a small woman. She looked to be a marten, with a vary, hopeful expression and dark circles under her eyes. She held a plate of beignets, still steaming hot.

"I, um, I wanted to welcome you to the building. I am your next door neighbour, Eugenié."

Sly grinned, shoulders relaxing. "Thank you, _madame_. I am Sly, and my friends are Bentley and Murray. Our schedule is likely to be somewhat erratic, so I apologise in advance if we ever disturb you at night."

With new acquaintances the norm was to offer your last name first, but if the lady wanted to hide it, she must have her own reasons. Sly didn't ask questions.

"I have a son, somewhat older than you. I would like to introduce you one of these days," Eugenié said and smiled in relief, a silent understanding passing between them. _I will not pry if you won't._

"Certainly," Sly replied, bowing slightly. A creak in the hallway made Eugenié stiffen and glance to the side. When no one came forward, she relaxed again. There was a faint hint of _something_ in her eyes, but Sly could only read tension, no treachery. Whatever her troubles were, they did not involve his gang.

Not yet.

He took the beignets to the living room, where they were well received by both of his friends.

Living here was already shaping up to be interesting.

.

* * *

.

Murray wanted to be useful.

Bentley was the uncontested genius and Sly could have made Olympic athletes weep in shame. Murray was neither of those things, but his body was reliable in its own way. Not very agile, but durable and strong.

Back in the days of their childhood, he had asked for a job from the old mechanic because he liked cars. That he had turned out to be good at maintenance and mechanics had been a pleasant surprise, as had been the fact that his reflexes sharpened to knives behind a steering wheel.

Having something he could offer for his friends made him happy.

It was admittedly a bit backwards that they should fund their future career partly through his entirely honest income, but money was money. Bentley's scholarship did not account for everything, they also needed to live.

Therefore, when Murray saw the sign announcing the need for a part-time delivery boy on the window of that nice (if dingy) little pizzeria down the street, he went home and asked Bentley if he could forge him a driver's licence.

.

* * *

.

École_ centrale Paris_ was, as higher institutions tend to be, comprised of several buildings. The one Bentley saw most often was modern and open with white walls and glass, bright and cool and sterile.

For the first weeks, Bentley had marvelled at the maturity of his new peers. Certainly there were some that sneered at his age, but the vast majority treated him perfectly politely. It was an open, interesting world, very different from their dark and dangerous one, and he wished he could bring Sly and Murray for a visit.

The same pleasantness went with the professors, for the most part, although they seemed to embody the statement that accomplished people tend to accumulate _eccentricities_.

His aging mathematics professor, an orangutan with silver fur, was a brilliant teacher but refused to give up his blackboard in favour of digital overhead projectors and occasionally wiped it clean of complex equations with a dry rag. As such, he spent most of the class time coughing on chalk powder and sounding like he was about to expire any moment.

The young rabbit lady in charge of teaching digital image processing was so excited over the recent innovations in her field that Bentley sometimes feared she would accidentally swallow her tongue in her haste to enlighten her students. Still, her lessons were some of his favourites.

(Even if she didn't quite seem to grasp the fact that they had lessons other than her own and would keep talking long after the allotted lecture time.)

Then there was _monsieur_ Charletan, an aging crow with silver streaks in his plumage and rather unfortunate and fairly erratic anger issues. Bentley found his lectures lacklustre and methods questionable, but physics was easy to learn from books and he generally spent the lessons reading further along under the table. There was always one bad apple, he had assumed, and left it at that.

That changed one afternoon when he sneaked in the administrational office after hours to laminate Murray's brand new fake driving licence.

He was exceedingly nervous - his talent lay in knowledge, not action, and he had no way to contact his friends should the need arise. Murray was waiting in the van, as always, having driven Bentley to school and back every day, but Sly was not present to offer confidence. He really should get on with building those wireless communication devices.

Still, he had the best chance to bail out of trouble if anything happened. Bentley had expected higher education to offer more of a challenge, but at least the first year had proven to be as much of a walk in the park as ever and his status as the resident prodigy provided him with a certain amount of leeway from his teachers.

Thankfully the laminating machine was silent and fast and spit out the piece of plastic without complaint. Bentley took the slightly warm licence and slipped it under his shell.

Of course, that was when his luck ran out. The sound of the doorknob turning sent Bentley's heart to his throat and he barely managed to scramble under the desk before the door opened.

He should be well able to stay out of sight, he reminded himself, concentrating on breathing. He and Murray had none of Sly's natural aptitude when it came to stealth, but learning from the best counted for _something_. Not that it helped with his nerves, which seemed insistent on choking him with tension.

"...You do wish to graduate, do you not?" carried the soft sound of Charletan's voice. There was something smug and cold about it and Bentley felt instantly alarmed.

"B-but my rent... I really need to pay for it, the landlord won't excuse me again!" said a desperate voice Bentley didn't recognise.

Charletan scoffed. "That is none of my concern. Which is more important? You scratch my back, I scratch yours, _non_? You would not wish to _anger_ me."

There was a muffled, miserable sound of agreement and the sound of scuffling Bentley thought meant that the bribe had been exchanged. Thankfully, neither lingered in the office and he was left alone again.

Bentley picked himself up from the floor, seething.

He knew there were crooked people in the world, certainly. He was arguably one himself, no matter if he could honestly say he slept with a clean conscience.

But science and academics were supposed to be based on honest merit. Not to mention the fact that the _grandes écoles_ already received a lion's share of the budget for higher education, so the staff must be paid very well.

Charletan was either exceedingly greedy or had an expensive hobby. Bentley didn't know which of the two, but fully intended to find out.

.

* * *

.

Under the waning moon, a shadow darted along the rooftops of Paris. It scaled the wall of a tall clubhouse, skidded along the roof tiles and leaped off to hook on a cable to slide down. With a swish of a tail, the figure disappeared into bushes.

Sly loved Paris. In the tiny village he had lived before, it simply wasn't _possible_ to jump from one roof to another in an endless race. There were no ledges to inch along, no real view from rooftops.

Here, only the sky was his limit.

He lifted the necklace he had stolen earlier, admiring the gleam of dark blue gems under the pale moonlight. He could tell they weren't sapphires, but also knew almost instinctively that the bauble was valuable anyway.

His father had taught him such things, at least, when he had been too small for physical feats. He could appraise value, recognise true antiques from forgeries and tell fool's gold apart from the real thing. It had been dull and laborious, but paid off now.

He still needed the Thievius Raccoonus, of course. He could climb pipes, ropes, even almost smooth walls. He could swing from hanging hooks and slide down cables. He had yet to fail at picking pockets, hands holding the cane both subtle and sure.

And while his clan had always put more weight into stealth, Sly had no choice but to learn how to fight, not if he wanted his revenge.

It wasn't nearly enough, none of it approaching what he knew he could do, if only...

Still, the most pressing issue was to find a place to sell his loot. He didn't want some shady joint where they would try to steal a man's gold teeth while they turned their back. Courtesy of his late father, he had a name, but _monsieur_ Discreté had turned out to be difficult to locate.

Then again, that was good. An underworld broker had to be good at keeping out of sight.

Sly crept out of the bushes and glanced around.

He had gotten the address to this place by greasing the palms of the bartender at a shady little bar where the customers never looked each other in the eyes and paid with carefully counted, rumpled notes. Despite the looks, the dive was said to be reasonably reputable, and Sly was slowly starting to get a good feel about this.

The neighbourhood was respectable enough, but not too elegant or exciting. The tiny, unassuming pawn shop he had been directed to was nudged between an dusty used books store and a place that seemed to sell paint and tapestry.

Perfect for such a business, really. (Well, as long as the customers managed to look legitimate. Or were sneaky enough. Sly was reasonably sure he fell in the latter category at this point, because his outfit certainly looked like he was about to rob someone.)

He stepped in, hearing a bell chime to alert the owner. The place was both tidy and absolutely full, everything organised impeccably so that no space was wasted. He could see several boxes labelled as 'Baccarat Crystal, Fragile' as well as several ancient looking books, exquisite oil paintings and fine china. There were also pieces of jewelry of all kinds, made of gold gemstones or silver and pearls.

Movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention and he turned to face the person rushing to the counter from the back room. He was an otter and looked so unremarkable that Sly had to congratulate him mentally.

"_Bonsoir_, how can I... Cooper!"

Surprised recognition shattered the polite mask. Sly blinked and smiled, as crooked and smug as always. "_Bonsoir_, Discreté. I see we can drop the pretence and get to business right away."

The otter smiled back, tentative and hopeful. "It would seem that way, yes. Do come to the back room. Goodness, I have to admit I didn't expect to see you, after what happened... I imagine we both have quite a bit to talk about."

He leaned past Sly to turn the sign on the door, stating that the shop was now _fermé_.

"Please call me Nicolas," he said as he led Sly to a small kitchen at the back of his shop. "My father spoke highly of your father, and your clan. I would ldearly like to work with someone honorable. I do so dislike working with the organised crime around here, their manners usually leave something to be desired."

"I'm sure we will get along just fine," Sly replied, accepting the offered cup of coffee with a smile. "My name is Sly. And while I would love to catch up with you, this evening I have something to sell and I am a bit strapped for time. We should have a proper get-together at a later date."

"Ah, I understand. _Bon_, let me take a look," Nicolas replied.

Sly dug in his back bag for his collection from the last month: moderately valuable jewellery, small antiques and assorted knick-knacks of dubious origin.

"Huh, this is good stuff," Nicolas said as he inspected the items, dangling a golden pocket watch from his fingers. "Not too hot or overly expensive, I probably won't have any trouble selling these on. I think I'm going to like working with you, Sly."

Sly grinned and handed Nicolas a small list. "Glad to know you approve. Still, I really must be leaving. If we are talking about the price, I need this equipment."

He dug in his pocket and handed over the small note that contained Bentley's instructions. Nicolas folded the paper open and glanced through the list.

"Oh, _oui_, I can make this happen. And I do mean it, please stop by at any time," Nicolas said and smiled warmly.

Sly inclined his head in acknowledgement and slipped out of the door. This time, there was no accompanying ring of the bell.

.

* * *

.

Sly's step was even lighter than usual on the way back home. Things were looking up. There was simply no way to be a thief without an underworld connection, even for one that stole from other criminals.

The community was vast and sprawling like an Ivy vine and had dozens of dead ends and false leads. In Paris alone, many gangs and syndicates lived in relative harmony, controlling their own areas and occasionally squabbling over something or other. There was drug trafficking, prostitution, confidence tricks, money laundering, illegal gambling... All branches of crime flourished in the great metropolis of Paris.

Sly and his little gang would have to dig their own little niche in the system. It wouldn't do to make enemies out of _everyone_.

Divide and conquer, his father had said.

At this hour, even their dreary little street was starting to get sleepy. Besides the usual passed out drunks, few were out and about. Sly passed a small group of slightly wilting prostitutes with smudged make-up and nodded respectfully. "_Être sûrs, _Charlotte, Marie, Bonnie."

Sly was rather popular with the local flowers of the night, having no tolerance for small-time criminals trying to beat women into what they perceived as their place, nor for men trying to take control of 'the business'. As far as Sly was concerned, the ladies had it hard enough.

"_Naturellement_, Sly," they replied, painted smiles both beguiling and shrewd. Sly bowed slightly in their direction and both parties went in their own way.

This was the way his little gang interacted with almost everyone, he had found. Friendly, yes, but fleeting; much like ships that pass each other in the night.

Bentley and Murray were the only ones he had been able to let close, and vice versa. He sometimes wondered what kind of people his friends would have become had they not met Sly that fateful day, in the murky waters of their childhood.

He shook his head. It was useless to dwell on it. The past was already set in stone. Future was still ahead, both enticing and treacherous.

Sly didn't bother with the door to their temporary home, instead climbing the gutter and slipping through the large window. He shut it carefully. Air was getting rather chilly and they hadn't gotten around to repairing the central heating yet. Patching the walls had taken care of the draft, but it was still little better than it would be to live on the roof.

To his surprise, Bentley and Murray were nursing cups of hot chocolate in the kitchen. Sly raised an eyebrow.

"Still awake? Something got under your shell, Bentley?"

"Very funny," Bentley replied tartly. "No. I.. I have found a... target. I'd like your input with the plan since I'm probably going to have to come along on this one."

"All right, let me have it," Sly said, hiding his surprise. They had done projects of small scale before, but more often than not Sly had been out on his own.

But then, this was a brief flash of what the future would bring.

.

* * *

.

The plan to take down Charletan wasn't complicated, but the man wasn't _really_ part of the underworld. With no underlings or connections, he was on his own.

Bentley disabled the security as easily as he would open a door and spent only a little bit longer coding the security cameras to play in a loop. Unfortunately, that was the safe part.

Murray sat in the darkness of the van and tried not to flinch at every sound or shadow moving outside. He didn't want to be alone, not when he didn't know what was going on. Normally, Bentley would keep him company, but apparently the files he needed were on the hard drive of the computer and Sly could not hack his way out of a paper bag.

That didn't make Murray feel any better. He still wished he could do something more. But fear gripped him, and the day he would win over himself had not yet arrived.

.

* * *

.

Charletan's office was surprisingly small and very cluttered. Bentley headed straight for his personal computer, ignoring Sly who, true to his character, was slipping this and that into his pockets. (Bentley sometimes wondered if it was a personal compulsion or an inherited trait.)

He had only just managed to find a promising root folder when Sly tapped at his shell.

"Look," he said and offered Bentley a stack of papers, frowning.

Bentley leafed through them, growing more indignant by the moment. Charletan's offences had certainly not been limited to blackmail. He had committed fraud, bribery and embezzled various funds. From the looks of the dates printed on the paper, this had been going on for years.

Thankfully their target had been careless (or maybe just had the habit of a scientist) and had let the evidence accumulate. It was more than enough to get him sacked, if not arrested outright. Bentley still wasn't sure, however, what the money was spent on. There was some money laundering thrown in, here and there, but no details on what cost Charletan five thousand francs per month.

The safe was a bit of a problem, too. Charletan hadn't been foolish enough to leave the combination in plain sight.

Bentley went to the papers to look for clues, muttering to himself. Meanwhile, Sly took to turning the combination lock in idle boredom but stopped all of a sudden, eyes widening in surprise. Then, very carefully, he changed the direction, his face a mask of intense concentration. Bentley almost asked what was going on, but held his tongue.

The safe clicked and opened, the door swinging out without a sound.

Sly turned to Bentley, looking only a little less astonished than his friend.

"I could feel it," he said. "Very subtle, like a little tremor on my fingertips."

"...I assume this is another thing that has to do with your Cooper heritage, then," Bentley said slowly, eyes wide behind his glasses. "But until we find the Thievius Raccoonus, it seems we will keep finding out your skills by trial and error."

"Yeah, probably. But, you know, while I can't wait to reclaim my birth-right, finding out what I can do like this isn't half bad," Sly said and grinned, the joy of discovery in his eyes.

Frankly, Bentley couldn't wait to get to read the book either. Sly and his family were clearly not just about hiding and hoarding techniques _anyone_ could learn by reading instructions - at the very least there had to a genetic disposition.

They emptied the contents of the safe into Sly's back bag, but money wasn't the only thing left inside. Behind the thick wads of cash were several small unassuming packages. Sly opened one, carefully, and sniffed. The smell was as overwhelming as incense and vaguely unpleasant. There was a bitter undertone to the scent of sandalwood and what resembled fennel and black cardamom.

Bentley leaned over his forearm to take a look. "Best take that with us, too, I want to do a chemical analysis on it. I cannot imagine why he would keep such large amounts of spice in his safe."

.

* * *

.

Most of the days, Sly and Murray had a schedule completely different from Bentley. During the hours of the day, he had lectures and returned home to find his companions just waking up, making coffee or brushing their teeth. There were a few hours then, to eat together and talk, before Murray was expected at the pizzeria and Sly left to his own mysterious excursions.

Bentley would go to sleep then, unless he had coursework to do or wanted to work on one of his personal projects. Alone in the apartment the walls seemed to close in and every little noise served to emphasise his loneliness. It was far better even to wake up at three in the morning, groggy and disoriented, to Murray crashing into the coat rack (and why did they even _have _one of those, again?)

As always, no one really asked Sly what he did. Usually he would tell them, at times he would not. Often he brought cash with him and always Bentley felt the brief sting of shame, before his conscious mind could stifle it.

They all did what they could and none of them could do everything, he reminded himself.

There were also times when Sly returned with bruises and gashes and stated only that he could not rely on stealth alone to accomplish his goal. It wasn't an answer, and yet it was. Bentley would take out their medical kit then and patch him up, cleaning the wounds and stitching them if needed. Sly had fur, it would cover the scars.

(Sometimes Bentley wondered if there were times he simply didn't wake up to do the job. Unlike everyone else, Sly had somehow mastered the art of not stepping on that one particularly creaky floorboard that complained every time someone dared to enter the living room.)

.

* * *

.

There were a few times none of them had to be anywhere else and Christmas was one of those.

While they resorted to Chinese take-out for dinner, Eugenié had baked them a traditional Christmas log cake. There were also apples, oranges and pears, nougat and chocolate and little almonds, and the brand new game console Sly had somehow procured (legally or not).

All in all, the world seemed far away and worries and obligations were momentarily buried under snow.

(Not that there was any of that in Paris. Temperature was stuck at steady -5°C and the streets were as black as coal.)

Their content peace was broken when Eugenié screamed, shrill and frightened.

Barely sparing a glance at his friends, Sly leaped to his feet and raced to the hallway. He had never forgotten, though he might have appeared to, that she always seemed wary and frightened and jumped at the shadows. The habit had never left her, even as they slowly became casual acquaintances.

The door to her apartment had been forced open and hung from its hinges, creaking sadly. Sly darted in without hesitating.

The inside of her place was tidy and modest, if showing obvious signs of poverty: the furniture was mismatched and heavily repaired and the wallpaper peeling off.

Sly didn't pay much attention to that, however.

A rather portly muskrat with a tasteless uneven moustache and an expensive coat was threatening Eugenié with a knife. He swayed on his feet and Sly could smell the liqueur to the other side of the room, but he was also much larger than her and fully immersed in alcoholic anger. Eugenie held a heavy frying pan and looked ready to use it, but she was still at a disadvantage. Before Sly could move, she caught his eye and gasped.

"Sly! No, you'll get in trouble!" she cried. Sly ignored the implied request and stared at the trespasser. He was absolutely going to interfere in this.

"Youuu, you bitch! You' been _chhheating_ on me?" the muskrat bellowed, turning to Sly and lurching forward uncertainly. "You shtay away from _my _woman!"

Sly twirled his cane. Almost at the age of fifteen, he was already nearing his adult proportions, lean strong muscles and wide shoulders. The muskrat may have been large, but he was drunk and addled.

It really wasn't much of a match - mostly because Eugenié used the moment of distraction to hit him over the head with the pan made of cold iron. The muskrat dropped like a sack of potatoes.

There was a pause, as tension drained away like water from a sieve.

Sly raised an eyebrow and straightened. "Well, so much for mister macho. Are you okay?"

Eugenié nodded and sighed, letting the pan drop on the carpet. "I am. But you really shouldn't have interfered. He'll now come up with some ridiculous story, I'm sure."

Sly shrugged. "Too late to regret. And who knows, he might not remember me."

As Bentley and Murray came in, encouraged by the lack of screaming, Sly took a hold of the muskrat and dragged him all the way out of the apartment, down the stairs and outside building.

About to go back in, he frowned and stopped. He could still smell the bitter stench of alcohol and sweat, but underneath that was something else.

Something like sandalwood and black cardamom.

He dug into the man's pockets and pulled out a small package. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained. It might smell like spice and be used like spice, but it was a drug. Bentley's analysis on their previous sample had revealed several psychoactive compounds, known for inducing hallucinations and increased aggression.

Leaving the muskrat out on the street, Sly leaped up the stairs and went back to Eugenié's apartment to the sight of Bentley and Murray trying to comfort her with tea and leftover Christmas cake. She looked remarkably poised already, if a little depressed.

"Thank you, but this won't stop here. My Marcel has tried to get his father arrested time and again, but it never seems to hold water. That man has money enough to line the pockets of the right people. And now you've gotten in trouble, too."

Sly smiled gently and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. I also know a guy."

.

* * *

.

"Nicolas, what can you tell me about this?" Sly asked and dropped the small bag of spice on the counter.

Nicolas looked up from polishing a small magnifying glass and whistled.

"Oh, that's the new trend drug. They call it 'spice' (apparently whoever named the thing had no imagination whatsoever). As far as I know, it's distributed by the Klaww Gang. The stuff is allegedly pretty popular with the middle and upper class population. You know - rich, bored kids."

Sly frowned. "I see. The police isn't doing anything?"

"I doubt it. Seems like money has exchanged hands again. You want incorruptible cops, you go to Interpol. Not that there aren't any crooks there, but, you know. Your chances are better. And besides, for all it does to you, it's also real spice. I don't think they've even trained dogs to recognise it."

"Well, I suppose there's nothing to it, then," Sly said and sighed, stretching his shoulders. "Still, I need to ask for a favour. My lovely neighbour has a bit of a problem with her ex-husband, who seems to be addicted to the stuff. Bentley said it increases aggression and he definitely seemed plenty hostile, so I can't leave this alone."

Nicolas nodded, rubbing at his chin. "Humm... Well, I do know just the guy. Just leave it to me, I'll get back to you."

"_Merci_, Nicolas. _Joyeux Noël_."

"Same to you, Sly," Nicolas said and glanced up.

The shop was empty. A brief breeze had blown in several snowflakes, products of an unexpected storm. Nicolas sighed, exasperated at the theatrics, and turned back to his new collection of freshwater pearls.

.

* * *

.

Time passed and summer returned to Paris. The city bloomed in flowers and tourists once again laid flawless siege on public toilets and restaurants.

Sly, Bentley and Murray had vacations, too, and nothing in particular to accomplish for once. The days passed, each of them lazy and hot, as the sun bored down on the city with vengeance. There was home-made lemonade, sunlight through the high window and a tiny electric fan that bravely tried to keep the heat at bay. It was too hot to think, too hot to steal, too hot to work.

When evening brought a relieving cool breeze, they would head out together and eat dinner at the pizzeria where Murray worked. The owner was a jovial warthog with an utterly incomprehensible Italian accent, filthy apron and clean hands. He always greeted them all with a friendly shout from the kitchen, but they had long since given up trying to figure out what he was actually saying.

They would head home after that, and play games or talk together until the moon rose to greet them. Sometimes they would stay up until the sun rose and birds welcomed a new morning.

It was during one of these idle days that they finally met the elusive Marcel.

The knock on the door was unexpected, if only for the timing. Their only visitor was Eugenié, who sometimes swept in to bring them peach tarts or petit fours and chatted cheerily about this and that. She had warmed up considerably since that Christmas incident and now always greeted them all with a kiss on both cheeks.

But she never showed up this late.

Sly groaned and heaved himself up from the deck chair, leaving his game controller on the floor. He had been winning the race, too.

He opened the door to the sour face of a young marten, who frowned at Sly and narrowed his eyes, then seemed to finish some internal struggle and sighed. He thrust his hand at Sly like it was a weapon.

"I am Marcel. My mother told me what you did for her. I... am here to thank you."

The words were not quite spat out, but there was a definite wary tightness to them. Evidently, Marcel wasn't one for trusting people.

Sly decided that this was not a place for smartass comments and tried to clean all of the usual smugness from his smile. "Ah, _enchanté_. My name is Sly. Do come in, I'll introduce you to my friends."

Marcel nodded rigidly and stepped inside.

It took half an hour and several glasses of lemonade, but eventually Marcel seemed to come to the conclusion that they were not, in fact, planning something nefarious and his hostility melted into standoffish acceptance.

He worked in the shipping industry, he explained, but also had some less than scrupulous dealings here and there and dabbled in things like shady construction and smuggling.

"It's mostly for mother," he said, gazing at the bottom of his glass. "I admire her. Father is rich, as you would know, and for a long time she only stuck with him for my sake. Until he beat her black and blue in some drunken rage. She left him right away, found a place for us to live and a job, and raised me with baked goods and smiles, all the while hiding from him. I think she's strong. Even now, after all these years, she's never given up her dream of opening a bakery. With father gone, she can finally do it."

Marcel looked up, his face stern.

"I'm only telling you all this because you got rid of him. I can tell you're not exactly law abiding citizens, and I don't like it. Some sort of rat instinct, I suppose, like recognises like... But I think I can trust you, to some extent."

He stood up and handed over the lemonade glass. "I never managed to get father arrested, no matter what strings I pulled. For that, I'll owe you guys one. Keep that in mind."

Sly smiled and grasped his hand. "Certainly. It has been a pleasure, Marcel."

Marcel nodded and swept out. Behind, Sly thought he could almost hear Bentley and Murray exhale in relief.

.

* * *

.

Their second year in Paris passed much the same. Murray was finally fired from his job for eating too much pizza on the side, but no one had caught him hotwiring cars while on the job, so everyone counted it as a plus. Sly grew into himself, his shoulders widening and gaining wiry muscles like steel cables. Bentley never gained much height at all, but Sly and Murray could follow his learning curve by the state of his vocabulary.

All in all, life was good.

Then, Bentley's graduation crept up on them like a guest you only half remembered inviting during some party while tipsy on champagne.

An unprecedented genius, he left the institute with impeccable grades after just two years. The day he received his diploma was a gorgeous summer day. The sun was bright and cheery but not overwhelming. The sky was periwinkle blue and stretched out endlessly, white clouds sailing on to their mysterious destinations under other skies.

Just like Bentley would.

He looked through the crowd and spotted his friends. Sly had that smile that always came across as a smirk, but undeniable pride managed to tone it down. Murray was almost jumping in place, waving at Bentley.

Happiness was like a balloon, inflating and lifting him. He glanced at the people he had studied with, the professors who had such expectations of him. He liked all of them just fine, but he was not part of their world. For the last months, he had had to spend a lot of time carefully weaving around attempts to offer him PhD opportunities or introductions to this or that prestigious company.

To cut ties was at the same time painful and a relief, like ripping off a band-aid. He had enjoyed school, the moderate challenge, the endless knowledge, he had walked his shady road since childhood and wasn't about to change it.

He spared the place one last glance and left, with no regrets. Freedom was sweet and the world waited ahead.

.

* * *

.

Author's notes: Doesn't seem this is too popular. It is a bit of a pity, when I put so much thought into this and Mafia King was written in two days on a whim… Ah well, I never expected much in the first place. And I'm still confident that the writing itself is good.

The OCs won't be stealing the show, they'll just show up every now and then. I thought a few would be needed, because in the games so much happened off screen. The cast is really small.

French translations:

_Château Rouge_: literally 'red castle', this is a more grungy area of Paris in real life.

_Fermé_: closed

_Joyeux Noël_: Merry Christmas

_Être sûrs_: Be safe

_Enchanté_: essentially, 'pleased to meet you'


End file.
